


Where The Blood Runs Cold

by Asphodel_glass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, F/M, Flashbacks, Loss of Virginity, Ramsay is his own warning, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:44:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9347579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asphodel_glass/pseuds/Asphodel_glass
Summary: The War of the Five launched in the name of Eddard Stark blackens from the ashes of loss and wrath. After an arrangement with the house of Frey goes awry, the northern campaign crumbles, leaving Robb Stark in a precarious position and in the company of the Boltons, that betrayed her family.When you throw a wolf into a kennel of mad dogs....





	1. Guilty

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing recognizable. This is a joint writing with Think-ghastly-thoughts-quietly, also posted on fanfiction.net

**Success is a song of the heart, not a song of your bed ~ The Paper Kites**

###  Chapter One: Guilty

Ask her, and no, not once had she mistreated her prisoners. Jaime Lannister deserved a beheading too,  worse even. But that arrogant man,  in his polished armor with those bright green eyes and that chiseled jaw, a disgusting sight because underneath that attraction hide an oathbreaker and a kingslayer, received her clemency. So why now were the gods making her suffer in this wretched prison?

_ Because your mother let him go.  _

 

Her throat constricted tightly. The image of the woman who nurtured Robb, was now a phantom in her memory.

The tears clung to the corner of her eyes, never quite falling as the reality of her mother’s absence continued to tear through her unrelentingly. Robb looked down at her hands, feeling the weight of the chains securing her wrists, wafting a smell stronger than iron. The taste of blood lingered on her teeth when she licked her lips.

 

In the far reaches of the dungeons untouched by torchlight, sounds of small scurrying across the black stone spurred a morbid thought from her: she could die here in the company of rodents, her carcass a home for maggots. The smell of mold and mice was strong in her nose and the thought manifested closer to reality. Strangely, the way death lingered in the air made her extremely reminiscent of Talisa, that woman so accomplished and quick witted - that woman with blood caked from her fingers to her elbows whenever the young wolf approached.

 

_ Talisa the receiver _ , a name coined by others. But, Robb would only ever remember her as Talisa Maegyr. The men she had tended to either lived or died by her hand; when the damage was too great to recover from and milk from the poppy was in short supply, Talisa readied a thin knife, thinner than a dagger, and pierced it through the base of a man's skull. It was all so morbidly fascinating, but Robb never admitted it. The woman called it mercy killing. And Robb found that the words “mercy” and “killing” never settled so well with her until it came out of the healer’s mouth.

 

“Lady Stark,” a guard interrupted her recollections, voice gruff through the bars as he stood outside the cell. 

 

“What?”

 

“You are being summoned.” His cowl obscured his face in shadows. It reminded her of the frightening ambiguity that most soldiers of this House carried. This man was sworn to the Boltons.  She cursed the lineage a thousand times in her head and knew nothing would come out of her hatred while she was still in chains.

She had sat on the floor for so long, her legs numbed at a stand- she required a few silent minutes to find them. The guard unlocked the door and promptly led her out of the dungeons. She studied the sword at his side. Yet, her hands remained terribly still. 

As more of the fortress revealed itself in the flickering glow of the torches mounted on the walls, horrific tales of the Dreadfort burrowed deep in her memory resurfaced. Angry faces made from shadows glared down at her from the vaulted ceiling. Even with the sound of their footsteps echoed, the castle was still - subdued in such a way Robb wondered if it was on purpose. Those of house Bolton lived in a rather depressing establishment; she heard her old nan say it was a tainted castle where the tears of men transformed into the wine on which they would become drunk on violence. 

They stopped before a room and the guard opened the door. Inside, the hearth burned low and the stone floor glowed an amber hue of a distorted puddle of blood. 

The guard stopped and turned to her. “M’Lord is waiting for you.”

She grimaced as her feet shuffled forward. When she half expected the guard to impale her from behind, she wondered at the same time if that was a better alternative than whatever the man waiting before her had planned. 

Lord Roose Bolton was seated at the head of the long table. He was a human made from stone, where emotion neither pinched his cheeks nor colored his eyes, a man never seen without his jaw clenched or his hands balled, a rat who could care less whose body he nested. He was as rumors always described: cold and hard. Not even in a century would the warmth from the sun reach the Lord of the Dreadfort.

 

“There is much that has occurred these past weeks. I can imagine you have amassed many grievances within that period.” 

 

Lord Bolton was courteous at length when he spoke, his sympathies well hidden under his hawkish gaze. That is, if he had any. “Your campaign has dispersed, and your bannermen have returned to their homelands. Winterfell is in ruin and your family is no more. You have suffered a great loss, Lady Stark.”

_ Lady Stark _ . A title that had once  belonged to her mother. Now hers to bear. 

Robb glowered at him. 

He hadn't invited her to sit, nevertheless she would not stand, partly because she sensed her buckle under her weight - she was so tired- thus she struggled into a chair with her bound hands while he scrutinized her from the expanse of the table. For a moment several barbed insults were drawn on the tip of her tongue and she swallowed them with difficulty.

“Naturally, I would have you delivered to King’s Landing so that you may be exposed for your treason against the Crown.” He said. “But the Frey soldiers concluded that your body has sunk to the bottom of Green Fork. All of Westeros believes you dead, while you sit here and breathe.” Lord Bolton paused and stared at her, hard. “It must be vexing listening to a traitor.”

Her mouth gave a twist and she had to release her jaw. “It is, my lord.”

“In truth, my marriage to Walda Frey spared my life.” She felt his mockery across the distance.

 

_ Good for you.  _

“Had you warned us this would not have happened.” The ire in her voice could not be withheld. At the man’s pointed glare she added with bitter reluctance, “My Lord.”

“It was not my decision to offend Walder Frey, Lady Stark. You were doomed the moment you waltzed into the Twins demanding that its Lord bend the knee for you and proposed the Tully in your stead. You executed the Lord of one your banner men in order to uphold your cumbersome honor, and still you have managed the gall to attribute your failures unto me. Whatever losses you are currently suffering it would do you well to remember that you brought these tragedies upon yourself.”

Robb stared at the iron clasps binding her. What was it about honesty that made it so unbearable to hear? She was no more a traitor to her country than Lord Bolton was to her. She should not have been surprised by his betrayal. There was a point where man realized continued aggression became an exercise in futility, useless toil. Roose Bolton arrived to that conclusion long before Robb could think him capable of doing so. Was that why he had betrayed her?

 

“Kill me and be done with it.” The words slipped out of her mouth and her heart clenched because she knew not where that suggestion had spurned from, and she feared Roose Bolton would take her words literally. She didn’t want to die.

His face betrayed no emotion, naturally, no hint of his scowl, or satisfaction. He merely gave her silence, gave her the pretense that he did not understand her request or even grant it. She found that ignorance did not befit a man whose cunning brought down her entire army.

“The Lannisters and Freys will flood into the Dreadfort and they will not spare you their mercies. Finish me, coward.” She spat. It hurt to say it, and the tears were well felt in her eyes. 

“Your death serves me nothing.” Lord Bolton said and his response gave her much to ponder. 

Robb did not like the implications of that.

-X-X-X-

_ She was accustomed to the cold but recent nights have tested everyone's resilience. Winter was coming. And so too was her mother as Robb half turned to the shuffling of boots and the sound of fabric swaying into the tent, approaching her. _

_ “Robbeth…”her mother said. “Some days I must wonder how you still function without rest. At this rate, by the time of the Frey’s wedding, you will have lamed.” _

_ “Do not ask me to rest while others fight on my behalf, mother.”  Robb replied in a tone too stern to invite further discussion of her nightly habit that has deprived her of sleep for the past two months. She circled the painted  table, unwilling to look at the disappointment  forever etched in Lady Stark’s face whenever their gazes would meet.  _

_ “Our home…” her mother then said, looking at the map where the name of the Stark stronghold was inked on the thin yellow parchment. The young wolf had witnessed Lady Stark weep earlier that day. Robb was unwilling to join her for she was elsewhere at the time, cursing the old gods and the new, cursing the blasphemy of the situation, cursing the war. Cursing betrayal, and cursing trust and then cursing herself for allowing it to play her for a fool. _

 

_ Her mother was of a pallid countenance like faded stone, like old bones. The war seemed to have stolen many days from her. Days better spent in the embrace of her Lord husband, in Winterfell, with her family. Not here. _

_ Robb slammed her hand flat on the table and the pieces trembled from the impact. At the gasp of her startled mother, her anger unfolded, she drew her hand back. Robb was somber again and it left misery in the air.  “I want his head.” she murmured. “For what he had done. For my brothers. For your sons. I trusted him.” _

_ “I never liked that boy.” Lady Stark shook her head.  _

 

_ Theon Greyjoy. The son of Balon Greyjoy. Her father’s ward. Robb’s unexpected companion.  _

 

_ Theon Greyjoy. Her brothers’ murderer. Her home’s terrorizer. The traitor of the North. _

 

_ Robb bristled with hatred. How could a name could ignite her wrath so easily? Even more, she dreaded the hurt that followed. _

_ “My daughter,” the warmth from the woman’s palm was on Robb’s cheek as she willed her daughter to listen, her voice warded the anxiety that festered in the young wolf’s mind. It was shared, their grief, but of the two, her mother proved stronger in that moment. Lady Catelyn weeped, but Robb was still too much a coward to give into self pity. “If only you were born a man, you would have made an excellent King. Your father would have been proud. I wonder, would you have been fair? Firm?” _

_ “I would have been all of father’s strengths and none of his weaknesses, mother.” Robb answered.  _

 

_ Her father was dead. And it had changed nothing. The war still persisted. With Robb remaining yet in the south. When will the losses be overshadowed by victories? _

 

_ “As king, I would ride into battle on horseback, annihilating every man who wishes to cause our family harm.” Removing Lady Stark’s still hand from her face, she stepped away to stare at the fire,  she wanted her enemies burning in them. “I would bombard King’s Landing and bring back Sansa with Joffrey’s head in her lap. As queen, I will.” _

_ “Your ambition is often unnerving.” her mother said. _

_ “There are others worthy of greater concern,” Robb drawled. _

_ She sensed something odd at the sudden silence and she knew her mother went sullen. “Lord Bolton had informed me that the survivors were escorted to the Dreadfort by his son...Why do the gods allow such a man to exist?” _

_ “We should be thankful a man like that is on our side.” _

_ “But crimes as atrocious as his? Murderous rampages,  torture. Men like that are unpredictable.” Her mother supplied. “Animals. How long before he seeks to have us in his maw?” _

_ “Then what do you suggest we do, mother? Order Lord Roose to kill him?” Robb asked dryly.  _

_ “Yes, if no offense was taken.” Her mother was steadfast and Robb understood where she may have acquired her adamancy. “Cersei Lannister deserves to hear the same.”  _

_ “If the Queen harms Sansa… ” Robb looked into the emblazoned hearth and its dying embers. “... I will ensure her and her lover brother are naked, burned to the stake, and impaled on spikes for all of Westeros to see.” _

_ Her mother grimaced. “You wouldn't.” _

 

_ Robb looked at the Lady of Winterfell and relented. “You're right.” _

 

_ There was a brief pause.  _

_ “Sometimes violent men are needed. They accomplish what we ourselves are too afraid to do.” Robb turned to her and wondered what warmth and what comfort she would find there if she collapsed into her mother’s arms. _

 

_ “You'll let him continue to thrive like the monster he is by torturing your enemies? ” _

 

**_Come mother, tell me it brought you some joy knowing that this monster is committing great atrocities against your sons’ murderer._ ** _ Robb thought back to Roose Bolton when he presented her mother Theon Greyjoy’s shred of flesh. The sight, while grisly, satisfied her if not a little. _

 

_ “It is not the king’s duty to dirty his hands.” Robb said. “Nor will it be mine. Only their heads I care for, when I remove it from their shoulders.” _

 

_ “I hope he may never meet you.” _

_ “No.” Robb disagreed.  “Lord Bolton informed us that Ramsay Snow is cruel but he is fearless. And fearless men are stupid. They oft follow blindly without regards to their own safety. If that does not kill him, then I will see to it myself.” _

 

_ This time her mother did not question the weight of Robb’s words.  _

 

**AN: The dialogue regarding Ramsay Bolton alludes to the conversation Robb Stark and Catelyn Stark had with Roose Bolton in Storm of Swords. Also, to previous readers I did change the name, because since this is a work in progress, it shouldn't be a surprise that things are subject to change**


	2. Men Whispering In The Wind

**AN: Research has told me that by AFFC Ramsay may actually be in his twenties, while Robb Stark died around sixteen. I found this interesting.** **  
  
**

**Life gives, but mostly takes- Social Repose**

**  
** **Chapter Two: Men Whispering In The Wind** **  
** **  
** She could swing no sword with the brawn of a sentinel, she could shoot no arrow with the precision of a royal archer, her lust for vengeance was not heralded by her screams on the battlefield. And yet she was the cause of great carnage and she had sent thousands to death with a single command. She had seen so many men die, familiar faces lost to a sea of unfamiliar Lannister soldiers who wanted her dead but were too dead themselves to do anything about it.   
  
When her father's bannermen swore their fealty to her, she realized then her responsibilities had increased a thousandfold - those long nights spent toiling over a map, those long days barking orders at her disorderly lords, those empty mornings reserved for her to mourn in silence of a title she did not want to have. Such an abrupt thought reminded her of how exhausted she was now staring at the North man seated before her. 

  
"You're no prisoner here." Lord Roose had continued and Robbeth strained to remember their discussion.   
  
She looked at her constraints lamely. "If I am no prisoner, then what do you make of this… ?" What would he make of the manner in which his castellan pawed at her like an animal when he dragged her to the Dreadfort? Would he care to explain why his sentry spat crass words of acid in her face, chanting "the Bitch of the North" as they tossed her into a cage for several weeks? Though, she would not ask this of Lord Bolton.   
  
"Precautions," he told her and elaborated by explaining she was reckless and unpredictable and that her behaviors required restraint. Her fingers curl beneath the fabric of her dirty sleeve at his drawl. She felt sudden insurmountable anger towards everyone and no one.

 

“You are a guest of the Dreadfort, Lady Stark.”

 

_ And how well Walder Frey upheld that custom. _ __   
  
"Then, I would like to be free of my confines." 

 

_ A little shrill, that _ . 

 

"I am tired." She said firmly, quietly.

 

_ Better _ .

 

"We can continue our conversation on the morrow, my lord?" It was not intended to be a question, but Robb’s voice wavered to sound like one. Her anger kept her strong, but when it came down to it, she regarded Roose Bolton with equal amounts of fear and desperation, as any captive creature might. He had caused so much harm already, but no fool would believe that he was incapable of doing worse.    
  
Lord Bolton narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Eventually, remarkably, he acquiesced and in the time that passed someone removed her shackles - this stalky brute with meaty fingers whose touch lingered too long on her wrist. Afterwards, a dainty handmaiden collected her and Robb uttered not even a parting statement to the Lord of the House.    
  
They walked together, guided by candlelight in the gloom of the castle and Robb noticed the purple markings extending on the girl’s thin neck, the prints disappearing under her collar. It hurt Robb briefly imagining how far down the bruises spread and just as fleeting was her idea of attacking the girl and escaping. But, Lord Bolton allowed this domitable thing to escort Robb because he knew Robb Stark was not stupid. Rash decisions often led to undesirable ends.   
  
"What is your name?" Robb asked instead, since trouncing the girl seemed unlikely.   
  
She, said girl, who did not turn, did not respond either.   
  
"I cannot recall the last time I exchanged polite remarks with another.”  _ I want it now more than ever.  _ Robb tried again, staring at her back. "You would do me a great honor."   
  
"I'm sorry, milady." She squeaked. The girl was a mouse and her gaze was careful as she glanced back at Robb. "It's Tansy. M'lord bid that I not speak with you otherwise he promises punishment. Please forgive me."   
  
Robb expressed her condolences and closed her mouth. They did not speak again.   
  
When they arrived to the top of the tower, Tansy opened a heavy door which creaked on its hinges, revealing cold chambers. A draft snaked around Robb’s ankles when she entered through the doorway and a brief chill encompassed her.    
  
Tansy had undressed Robb, who at first did not welcome the girl’s tentative touch, but gave into her ministrations if only to be civil. First the damp heavy cloak, then the gown, tumbled down in a pile at her feet and Robb stepped out of the circle it created, her arms about her pale waist immediately as she stood now in her slip. Goose flesh sprinkled across her shoulders down her back - why was the room so cold? When the girl bent to pick it up, Robb stopped her.   
  
"Please do not touch it, Tansy," she rasped.   
  
Her mother for several weeks created the intricate garment as a name day gift for her. Now, it lay dilapidated in a pool at her feet. It deserved its own prayer. It deserved a burial. No one but herself had any right to touch the fabric. Or maybe it was not the gown itself that tethered Robb so closely to it, but the owner of the hands who had stitched it together.

 

“I am sorry this has happened to you, m’lady.” Robb heard her mutter before the sound of a bolt sliding into place made her realize that Tansy had excused herself and sealed the room. 

She had not wanted to believe it was locked until she pulled the handle and it would not budge. Dejected, she stepped away, shivering. 

 

_ Hope is still good, Robb; it means you want to live... _   
  
She tugged the sheet of the bed and wrapped it around herself looking much like Maester Luwin in his loose garb, but it did not make her feel half as wise as him. Shuffling about the closed quarters because sleep and vigilance were at open war and time was quite irrelevant to her, Robb lingered near the window and, above the points of noise created by soldiers scattered about the fortress, she listened to the muted stillness of the Dreadfort and thought of Winterfell.    
  
Sometime during the night, she succumbed to the comforts of the bed. Tortured screams of her men whispering in the wind lulled her to sleep.    
  
X-X-X-X   
  


_ Her brown hair sagged in her loose braid as Talisa tended the body quickly. Robb’s hand twitched to touch the brunette plait, but instead her fingers rubbed at her jaw gingerly.  _

 

_ The man was prostrate on the table, much like his other comrades that were collected from the aftermath of Riverrun, except this one was very much alive, though she couldn’t quite call it luck that he still was. His darkened clothes carried the heavy stench of blood and where his tunic was torn, underneath shredded cloth was his back a mess of crimson. Robb espied the pink hard dots in the wound and her stomach sank from the realization that it was his spine, peeking through slivered layers of muscle. _

 

_ Talisa appeared at her side but Robb was too sad to be startled. The man’s curly head was turned the other way so that he could not see Talisa, with the knife in her hand, and Robb, his queen, the grief on her face apparent. The healer craned her neck to whisper into the young wolf’s ear. _

 

_ “Speak to him. The procedure can be smoother.” Talisa’s gentle words prompted Robb to walk over to the man with a hesitancy in her gait. _

 

_ His face was worriedly pale, and when she was confident he would give out soon, that she would not have to fulfill this meaningless task, the man’s eyes fluttered open at her presence.  _

 

_ “Your….Grace.”  _

 

_ Robb knelt down so that man needn’t strain to look at her and she inclined her head in acknowledgement. _

 

_ “What is your name soldier?” _

 

_ “Ansich, your grace.” He replied maintaining his courtesy even in the of the Stranger looming over his shoulder. “I regret to be seen like this.” _

 

_ Gods, she regretted looking at him like this too. _

 

_ “No, Ansich,” she said. She was neither maternal nor soft - her mother’s good graces failed to find purchase in Robb, but her father had said a dying man deserved to have every modicum of his dignity intact when he drew his final breath and she acted according to that. “You fought valiantly. Every wound you earned on that battlefield brought the North closer to our victory.” _

 

_ Robb would learn in a year Ansich’s sacrifice would mean nothing. _

 

_ “I am humbled your grace.” Though weak, he looked burdened, though dying, the thought alone gave him the energy for the carving of deep wrinkles on his forehead. _

 

_ “Something troubles you?” Robb asked. _

 

_ “My family they must...”  _

 

_ When Robb saw the man's tears,  she quickly touched her face and hoped none had slipped from her eyes. No man should see his Queen cry. No Queen should suffer tears at the loss of her army.  _

 

_ “They will.” Robb affirmed, balling her fists to hide the tremor in her fingers. “They will know of your bravery. Your service.” _

 

_ No answer. He was looking at her. Through her. And Robb waited for several moments until it came to her that Talisa killed him. When you delve into war, you surround yourself in death, and it becomes easier and faster to distinguish when a man is no longer a man, but bones coated in meat for the vultures to dine. _

 

_ “That is not what troubled him.” Talisa said matter of factly, removing the knife from the skull and sliding it across her skirt, a new stroke of red smeared on her dress. _

 

_ The statement picked at Robb. She stood to full height and frowned at the healer. “What do you mean?” _

 

_ “I had spoken to Ansich before you arrived.” she said, turning from the Queen, replacing the knife in a sheath on the table. “His family is poor. His wife sick. He lives in Torrhen’s Square. He has three sons, too young to manage the house themselves; you would not have known had I not told you just now. And when you asked him of his troubles, you assumed he was concerned about not being recognized for all the toil he underwent in your war.” _

 

_ Robb shelved every word of Talisa’s and her natural response to her own folly was being anger, she therefore replied angrily, and defensively. “It is not my war,” she said. “It never was my war, do you understand that? And until you hold a sword, this war does not concern you and you have no voice in it. ” _

 

_ “Does war only involve those who fight?” Talisa questioned. “What of the innocents whose bodies litter the road towards political deliverance? I do not wish to understand this incessant need for violence. If to you being in a war means holding a sword, I never will partake in it.” _

 

_ “You think your ignorance will stop men from dying? Will stop boys from marching into mud, never to see their families again?” Robb stepped towards her unconsciously. “I want to stop this, do not presume I am in delight of the death of my own people.” _

 

_ “I could not imagine that. Meanwhile, you have thousands of men who have sworn their swords to you. They all know of Robbeth Stark and yet you could not put a name for any of them.” she tested, Robb collected that almost immediately and resigned to silence. Talisa studied her, sighed, and moved to get back to her work.   _

 

_ The hand that caught Talisa’s wrist and jerked her back had murdered the very men that the healer sympathized and Robb let that thought simmer as she tightened her grip around the woman’s thin wrist, afraid Talisa would be repulsed by her touch. _

 

_ “You would rather I surrender? Do you know what you are proposing? Lord Stark would have died in vain. Sansa and Arya Stark, my sisters, my blood, will still be hostages at the mercy of their father’s murderer. The northern people will remain in vile clutches of southern Bastards and my mother…will never know true justice….” _

 

_ The autumn wind blew brittle leaves into the tent, and Robb could sense the approach of Winter as her skin rose to goose pimples under her thick garments. The words caught in her throat as she could feel tears wet and cold upon her face. _

 

_ “No.” she finally heard her say in subdued resignation.  _

 

_ “No what?”  _

 

_ Talisa stared back at the young Queen as she searched for her words. Her hand, edges of her fingernails encrusted in red, was warm where it had touched Robb’s. “No, I do not want you to surrender.” _


End file.
